


Five Things That Never Happened To Harry Potter

by miasnape



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5 Things, Age Difference, Angst, Dungeon, Floor Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Underage Sex, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasnape/pseuds/miasnape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Snape's developing relationship in five 500 word vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things That Never Happened To Harry Potter

I

Harry has never understood why the walls of the castle never feel damp, even in the dungeons. As his back digs into the dry stone, as his shoulder blades grind uncomfortably against the granite, as his head thuds dully against the wall, he feels like crying; so he laughs. He doesn't know why he subjects himself to this: he doesn't want it; has never wanted it; has never even craved it.

Of course, his body wants it, but his body wants just about everything that moves (because he's at that age, he acknowledges). It doesn't really mean anything that his prick is straining upwards and he's panting and a thin sheen of sweat is covering him all over. It matters that all throughout this his stomach cramps and he tastes bile in his throat.

He wouldn't be surprised if, should he actually look at who he is letting do this to him, he were to throw up. He wouldn't be surprised at all, because who would want this from Snape?

But there he is, lying on the ground now - which, he notes, never feels damp either, only freezing cold - and he's parting his legs like a good little whore, lifting his legs up to his shoulders, and he feels like a prostitute. He is a prostitute, he thinks, because it's trade of a curious sort. I'll give you my body if you let me pretend that you want it in the first place.

He's awfully fond of paradoxes like that, fond of the irony.

The pain that comes, inevitably, as Snape forces his cock inside would make him whimper in pain if he were to let it, and it fills his aching, echoing body in a way that nothing else ever has; in a way that he hopes that something else will in the future, because he's not sure how many more times he can do this and still remain himself: surely at some point he'll simply become an extension of Snape.

And it occurs to him, as Snape ruts away between his spread thighs, that he already is, and he laughs. If Snape thinks there's something curious about the way Harry laughs out loud during these encounters, he never mentions it. Of course he doesn't - that would mean recognizing that it was Harry he was fucking, and that would mean never doing it again. While Harry simply lies underneath him and bucks up into his hurried thrusts and makes sounds any lover might, it's okay - it's not Harry Potter he's fucking, it's a nameless nobody.

And that, Harry thinks, might be the crux of why he comes down here.

It might be obvious - even to someone a lot more simple-minded than Harry - that yes, he's getting buggered by Snape, and yes, Snape is buggering him (if the two things aren't one and the same), but there's a strange kind of anonymity to the arrangement, and that's what Harry wants; that's what he's always wanted; that's what he's always craved.

II

Harry has always liked the Three Broomsticks. He's always liked how you can sit at a table with your friends for hours and drink one butterbeer each and still not get bothered by Madam Rosmerta, most likely because she's chatting to one of her regulars at the bar and enjoying a drink herself.

He likes it when he's alone and drinking far more than he should in a dark corner, because he watches people and listens to snippets of conversation and pretends that one day he'll have a life that ordinary, with worries like whether to buy the blue stripy curtains or the green paisley ones. With worries that seem far more real and immediate than death.

He even likes it when Snape's in the pub, although it happens extremely rarely, because he relishes the normalcy of the not-quite-hatred stirring in his veins. He used to wonder why he didn't hate Snape more or less since they began fucking, but then he realised that it's just another thing people do, and he's more likely to hate Snape for not letting him into his NEWT class or to like him more for disappearing every so often and coming back with dark rings under his eyes and his shoulders slumped than he is just because they go off for a bugger sometimes.

Ron and Hermione don't know about that arrangement, but it's not because he doesn't want them to know. It's because, he thinks, they're not really interested anymore. He doesn't blame them; he's become a very boring person, and if it weren't for that scar on his head he thinks no one would care who his godparents were or whether he likes the blue stripes or the green paisley (he likes the blue stripes).

No, Ron and Hermione are far more interested in his thoughts on the fact that Professor McGonagall is being a lot harder on them in classes or on whether the new Gryffindor chaser is up to standard or on when the hell he's going to get up the courage to go and confront Dumbledore about his future. To tell the truth, he finds those subjects a lot more interesting as well, which explains why he's having an argument with Ron and Neville about what makes a good chaser and not brooding about the non-dampness of the dungeon walls and floors.

And it's nearly Christmas, he thinks, and he should really pop down the street to get that box of chocolates for Mrs Weasley. He knows it's an unoriginal gift, but he's a teenage boy, and surely that's excuse enough. Besides, it's the thought that counts and he'll write a lovely card to put with it. Hermione is still giving him reproving glances and suggesting other things he could get her, but they all sound so personal or impersonal and he wants Mrs Weasley to have something nice that she can enjoy that's just for her.

He hopes that, this Christmas, he gets something that's just for him.

III

Sometimes Harry wonders whether it's emotionally healthy to be a wizard. He wonders if it's not all just an excuse to stop touching things and to stop feeling things.

He usually thinks this when he sees Hermione practise another spell to manipulate something from afar, but right now it's because he sees Professor Flitwick moving Christmas tree ornaments across the Great Hall. Right the way from beyond the Slytherin table to just behind his head, which is definitely Gryffindor territory.

He would never voice it out loud - or maybe he would and he just doesn't know when or to whom - but he thinks that he might have been better off growing up as a muggle or a squib sometimes.

Of course then he reminds himself of all of the things he's learnt how to do with magic; all of the things he still has to learn. Maybe he can learn how to touch people with his magic; maybe he can learn how to feel them. Maybe he'll have to come up with a new form of magic that does that, all by himself, but he's sure it's a commendable plan, and worthy of some consideration at least.

It smells like Christmas at Hogwarts, Harry thinks. Proper Christmas scents that tease your nose with cinnamon and cloves and fresh pine and lumpy mashed potato (he doesn't know how he can smell the lumps) and other things that smell warm and comforting.

It doesn't smell at all like Number 4 Privet Drive did: like the dusty fake poinsettias and the wet dog smell of damp boots drying by the radiator and the heavy sugary odour of Aunt Petunia's Christmas cookies that Dudley always burnt his tongue on because he was too impatient to wait until they were cool enough before he ate them, all muted by the journey through the small vent in his cupboard door.

Later that night, when he's lying on his back on the dry dungeon floors, he has a feeling he'll remember the smells and compare them to the smells of the dungeon and of Snape, and he knows he'll laugh again, so he laughs right now and Neville darts a curious glance in his direction, and then a nervous smile when he sees that Harry's not listening to what's going on around him again.

He really should make an effort, he thinks, to live in the same world as everyone else.

Well, maybe not everyone else, because there are a lot of people who look distracted in this room, and he's not sure he likes it when Dumbledore doesn't have enough of himself in this world to smile at the hat McGonagall's transfigured for Vector, when even Harry has to smile (and wonder just how twisted the minds of his professors are). He doesn't like what it portends.

But then again, Harry thinks as he pokes Ron and gets him to look up, he's never really been fond of times when things seem out of his control.

IV

It's strange, Harry sometimes thinks, how the progression of time can sometimes distract you from the small changes happening every day until it reaches a point where you have no choice but to notice. In this case, it started with a Quidditch injury and he noticed via a cut lip.

Harry had taken a bludger to the knee during practice, and while it had only glanced off and left nothing more than a bruise, it was a painful bruise. It looked painful, too; it had turned purple and yellow and black. Harry had laughed when even Snape had winced when he'd seen it, and they'd moved from the floor to the bed. The next time Harry went down to the dungeons Madam Pomfrey had healed it, but they stayed on the bed. Harry hadn't complained - it was definitely warmer and infinitely more comfortable than the floor.

Mid-January, Harry noticed that most of the couples around the school seemed to be doing one thing (and doing it a lot and in increasingly public places). He didn't really see the attraction of kissing - certainly didn't see it as regarded kissing Snape - but he would be dammed if he was going to be left behind his peers.

And so he'd kissed Snape, rather thoroughly, just as they were approaching orgasm. And they'd kept kissing - bruising, harsh, hungry kisses - right up until the last waves of pleasure had departed. And they'd had no reserve over doing it again and again after that, and Harry had finally had some new words to describe the whole experience, although wet was certainly one he decided to keep.

One night (after a very long and stressful day for Harry in which he'd had several arguments with Hermione, and he'd gotten a D on his essay) the kisses turned softer, and even though he had been fucked hard enough that just sitting on the soft mattress to pull on his shoes made his backside ache he remembered the gentle kisses with a smile and thought, for the first time in his life, that maybe Snape could be tolerated.

Another night (after a very long and stressful day for Snape in which Harry had heard that three cauldrons had exploded and Snape had had to have a finger partially re-grown) Harry had let his hands roam all over Snape's tense muscles, from his neck right down to the small of his back, as they fucked, and Harry had mused that he didn't feel like a prostitute anymore. He almost felt like Snape actually wanted to fuck him. And he'd laughed, and Snape had looked him in the eyes and crooked one side of his mouth up for just about one second before scowling and then kissing him hard enough that one of his teeth scraped along Harry's lip and drew blood.

Harry found that he didn't mind all that much - at least he was being recognised.

And the bed really was much better to have sex on than the floor.

V

As Harry slid his arm under the wood and balanced his share of the weight on his shoulder, he forced himself to look up and into the eyes of the other people assembled. No one was looking at him, though; they were looking at the coffin on his shoulder.

He moved in unison with the five other men, matched his stride with the movements of Kingsley Shaklebolt's feet (the only parts of him he could really see under the dark cherry wood) and trusted the other pallbearers to keep up, and they did.

He felt like a fraud in his heavy black mourning robes, and his heart felt so hollow that it ached.

This was the first funeral he had ever been to - Sirius hadn't left a body - and all he wanted to do was get Remus' body to where it was supposed to be in a dignified manner, and then go somewhere dark and small to cry. A cupboard, he mused, would do wonderfully well.

He thought he saw the flash of a camera going off - although it could have been lightning - and found he didn't care at all if the Prophet ran this picture, even if he looked as hellish as he felt. It wasn't about him today, not at all.

As he and the other men manoeuvred the coffin down and then formed a line beside the grave, he found images of a silver hand ripping into Remus' chest and tearing his heart out flash through his head, and he lowered his eyes. The blades of grass looked lethal, and he kept his eyes on them as the rest of the ceremony blurred past, wondering if it was possible to force his eyes back to the coffin without them watering and knowing that he had to.

After, in Grimmauld Place, as everyone stood about drinking tea and eating sandwiches cut into triangles, Harry let Hermione cry on his shoulder and Tonks hug him as she tried to regain her composure. He let Ron shake his hand and pull him into a quick, hard hug, and he let a haze of people shake his hand or kiss his cheek and give him their condolences as he listened to others speak about how he had been the closest thing to family Remus had had, and all he could think about was how no one ever sat at funerals. People scurried about making endless cups of tea and talking to the person beside them and comforting the person to their other side, and Harry wondered if they were that busy for a reason or if they did it just to stay on their feet.

And he only let himself think about how much he missed Remus when he went to the dungeons and threw himself on Snape, only to have Snape pull him back and stare him in the eyes, and continue staring until Harry looked away.

And then Snape simply pulled Harry tightly to his chest and held him.

THE END


End file.
